Voyeur
by emmish
Summary: Vyvyan wakes in the night... Slash, angst, adult content - Rick/Vyv.
1. Chapter 1

It was pitch black in the share-house, 3am. Vyvyan groaned and opened exhausted, ice-blue eyes. SPG was snoring gently but audibly, and moonlight shed a feeble, dove-grey light through the cracks in the thick, dark curtains. The room was spartan, bare, essentially a cell, with a painfully plain bed, a small knife collection, and a chest of drawers upon which the hamster slept in a spacious cage, in debatably more comfort than the young medical student.

The young punk shifted sleepily under the thick brown covers, pushing them off of his head and sighing, woken inexplicably from a vague but highly pleasurable dream. Taking a few deep breaths, he blinked in the dark and slipped one hand down to his waistband, impatiently tugging open his studded belt and picking open his flies, taking hold of his eager hard-on and rubbing slowly. Unable to remember the specifics of the dream, he stroked leisurely, kicking off the heavy covers, breathing heavily, fingers working faster.

He froze when a sterile, bright light suddenly beamed across his body, and he stared in confusion for a few seconds, before recalling the tattered hole he had punched through the wall the previous afternoon into the bathroom, and through which he and Rick had shared a typical tiff. Grubby flaps of wallpaper obscured the full view into the bathroom, and without knowing why, Vyvyan shifted, lying on his front, and peering through them. Sprawled rather awkwardly across his narrow bed, he sighted Rick in front of the bathroom mirror, fiddling with his greasy pigtails and humming occasional notes from a song that was bound to be by Cliff Richard. After preening for a minute or two, the brunette sociology student approached the toilet, abruptly pulling down his pyjama bottoms and taking himself in hand.

Vyvyan pulled back slightly, staring, the position of his peephole granting visual access to everything. His hand had already shoved back inside his tight jeans, tugging at himself viciously as Rick began to relieve himself. The self-proclaimed anarchist was still humming randomly, oblivious, as the flame-haired punk began to orgasm, writhing on his front, face buried in the mattress as he struggled to restrain his strangled noises, sobbing faintly and bucking sharply.

Seconds later, Rick had left the bathroom, turning the light off, leaving everything in buzzing darkness once more. Vyvyan remained in his uncomfortable position for a few seconds, before groaning heavily and preparing to clean himself up.


	2. Chapter 2

*Small note, I'm not very good at comedy, so I'll do this in my usual style but try and make the characters accurate XD Short chapter, pre-slash, but it won't be long now ;) *

"Vyvyan's awfully quiet this morning," Rick postulated loudly, perched at the kitchen table, watery blue eyes staring at nothing in particular. By this time, a soundtrack of smashing glass, handsaws or heavy chains would usually indicate the punk's mood upon awakening, regardless of whether it was good or bad.

"Probably hungover from that petrol cocktail he invented last night," Mike said airily, eyes fixed on his newspaper, dressed as usual in a gaudy suit.

Neil lumbered about the kitchen units, holding a grubby saucepan of lentils and looking miserable as usual, grumbling quietly to himself.

The anarchist seemed to be unable to go more than a minute without hearing the sound of his own voice, and fidgeted moodily. He took a deep breath, folded his legs and posed primly as he opened his mouth to begin a voluminous anecdote about his sociology teacher, when deafening thuds heralded Vvyyan's descent downstairs. He stormed in, square-shouldered and stony-faced, padlock swinging violently on its chain. Rick's indignant yell stopped him in his tracks on his way to the fridge.

"WHAT TIME DO YOU CALL THIS, VYVYAN?"

There was a moment of stillness, then the flame-haired punk whirled round, face dark with fury and eyes terrifyingly blue, full of disbelief and hate. Rick was smirking, arms folded across his narrow, badge-adorned chest, when the fist connected with his jaw with shocking force. He crumpled from the chair, blood streaming from his bottom lip and teeth stained shocking red. The punk grimaced down at the brunette for a second, then spun in his usually unstable, Neanderthal-like manner to the fridge, yanked open the door and removed the half-bottle of vodka he kept in there, grabbing it with one hand, stomping back a step, and smashing the door shut with a violent kick with one steel-toe cap Doc Marten boot. He totally ignored the stares of his housemates, and strode in frightening high temper from the house.

Neil slowly turned back to the saucepan, saying nothing, but looking shaken. Mike too, seemed surprised by the unusual aggression shown by the punk.

Rick, white-faced and bloody-mouthed, wiped a trembling hand across his lips and quailed at the bright scarlet wetness left on his knuckles.


	3. Chapter 3

*Takes a bit of a dark turn here, thanks for the reviews so far! The chapters will be a bit longer from now on. Xx *

The October wind was biting that bright, milky morning, and Vyvyan tried to restrain his shivers as he thundered down the quiet street, breaths shaky and fast, the vodka bottle clutched in his right hand. He almost wanted to meet somebody on the short, cold journey he was making, just daring them to take him on, daring them just to stare.

But the streets were desolated, only a handful of cars trundled past. His pale, smooth arms were covered in goosebumps when he got to the park, an unkempt, open space with handful of scraggly dark trees and coarse bushes sheltering cold benches. He slowed down slightly as he stomped heavily, tiredly to an overgrown section of foliage, the thick, tough greenery of which had partially engulfed the back and sides of a splintery bench. An overfull bin had already been devoured.

The punk's blue denim and spiked orange hair were incredibly garish in the thin, cold air, and intermittent gusts of bitter wind made no impact on the stiff, gelled tri-hawk.

He slumped onto the bench and proceeded to down a few swallows of the vodka, frowning at the burning clear liquid.

"…Fuck," he murmured to himself, staring down at the sparse, grey grass surviving by his boots. Gulping down nearly the rest of the vodka, he sucked in a thick, wet breath, and let a few tears trickle down his face, sobbing just once before biting down hard on his lip and concentrating on choking back his despair.

Already a little wobbly from the liquor, he placed the bottle on the warped bench beside him, and glanced around before undoing the thick studded cuffs from his wrists, sighing at the relief of cold, fresh air on the clammy skin, the old, deep scars there tender and sore and red from chafing. He let them air for a few seconds before replacing the cuffs and sitting back on the bench, arms crossed tight over his chest, expression blank, vibrant blue eyes closed under damp, pale lids.


	4. Chapter 4

Back at the sharehouse, Rick was grey-faced and sick-stomached as he stood in front of the grimy bathroom mirror, dabbing at the drying, dark red blood on his lips and chin, his grey shirt damp from a small splash of it. He prodded his tongue around his teeth gingerly, highly strung as he anticipated Vyvyan's eventual return.

Not easily shaken, he now made his way to his room, settling on his bed and half-heartedly riffling through his communist books and vinyl records, having been completely silent since fleeing from the kitchen a little while earlier.

Vyvyan staggered through the front door an hour later, the early afternoon sky having grown darker, glowering. The winds had picked up, the temperature dropped.

The punk immediately collapsed drunkenly against the banister, barely catching himself, his eyes heavy and unfocussed, his mouth hanging open. He slipped on the first stair and went down like a sack of bricks, banging his knee painfully. Swaying upright, he made his way upstairs slowly, clomping heavily on each step.

Mike and Neil, sitting watching TV in the drawing room, exchanged silent glances.

The flame-haired medical student pressed one chilled hand to the wall, making his way along to his bedroom, fumbling with the handle. He stood dizzily in the doorway, peering down at a piece of paper at his feet. Reaching down, nearly falling in the process, he picked it up and squinted at what he recognised as Rick's loopy handwriting – though he was too drunk to make out the words.

Rick jolted in alarm as a ferocious kick was landed on his locked door, followed by Vyvyan's screeching, slurring voice. "RICK YOU F…FUCKING POOF! THE…FUCK IS THIS?"

Rick had recovered somewhat, and felt safer with the locked door between them

"SORRY, I FORGOT THAT YOU'RE ILLITERATE!" He yelled back at the door.

There was a scream of rage and what sounded like the punk throwing himself against the door.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT _YOU'RE_ SO ANGRY ABOUT! I'M THE ONE WITH THE BROKEN JAW!" Rick screeched at the door, standing up now, fists clenched.

"OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!" Vyvyan roared, fists pounding on the wood. Rick was dumbstruck when he suddenly heard distinct, racking sobs mingling with the thudding blows. He was almost shocked into opening the door. He approached it, voice back to normal volume now.

"…Why? What could you possibly want? Except of course to finish what you started earlier," he spat.

"Open…the fucking door," came halting, muffled words, as the fist pounding stopped.

Bracing himself, sighing in the knowledge that it was probably a spectacularly bad idea, Rick slid back the bolt and quickly took a step back, watching the handle jump feebly as Vyvyan tried to get it open in the state he was in.

Rick grimaced as the flame-haired punk staggered in, swaying, pushing the door shut behind him and falling against it, breathing hard. His face looked red and damp. The anarchist decided that he wasn't in much danger with Vyvyan in this state.

"What's _WRONG_ with you?" Rick asked, in a voice high with contempt and bewilderment.

Vyvyan turned round slowly, bright blue eyes hazy, Rick's note held crumpled in one hand. The punk offered to him unsteadily. "What's…s'say?" he slurred.

Rick sighed, putting one hand on his hip and snatching the paper away with the other, sneering.

"I'm not surprised you can't read it, Vyvyan. Anyway, it's not important because you don't care about anything anyway."

Vyvyan looked sleepy and confused.

The anarchist had both hands planted firmly on hips now, pulling his typical superior pose. "What _have_ you been doing, Vyvyan?"

"C-can't help it," the punk swayed, his spiked orange hair bending against the door as he rested his head back.

"What, getting drunk or beating me up?"

Vyvyan pushed the bolt back on the door again, locking it. Trying to stand up straight again, he mumbled drunkenly.

"I hate you," he slurred.

"Oh, so what's new?" Rick spat, watery blue eyes wide, still sneering.

"But I…don't."

The anarchist rolled his large pale eyes, snorting with annoyance. "I've got work to do, just get out and go and feed your bloody hamster or something."

Vyvyan's heavy black boots clomped on the floor as he approached the brunette shakily, bold blue eyes suddenly vibrant as he entered a weak light shaft from the half-open curtains, his skin ghostly white, except for the sore pink around his eyes. His forehead star studs glittered silver.

Rick was beginning to feel quite disturbed, and he stared with a baffled expression as the punk moved closer, taking hold of Rick's upper arms for support as he swayed. The anarchist flinched sharply at the touch, realising that he could feel the chill of the punk's fingers through his shirt _and_ blazer.

"Vyv-" He was stifled by the punk's freezing cold lips smashing against his, the vodka tasting like poison, the punk's nose ring nudging against his skin. He froze, watery blue eyes impossibly wide, before yanking backwards, mouth hanging open. Vyv, looking wobbly, was breathing quick, shallow breaths, eyes still hazy.

"I j…just…" he murmured, before collapsing to the floor in a weighty, denim-clad heap, passed out.


	5. Chapter 5

**- **Thanks again for the reviews, I do thrive on feedback :D x **- **

Rick stared down at the unconscious punk, lost for words. He stood motionless for several seconds, breathing hard, until a tentative tap sounded on his door.

Mike's voice was heard distantly. "Everything alright Rick? You still alive in there?"

The anarchist moved slowly, head swimming, to the door, and opened it. Mike stood in the corridor, wearing his dark sunglasses despite the gloom. Neil hovered behind him, looking as nervous and depressed as usual.

Rick blinked hazily, his voice quiet as he gestured feebly back into his room. "Neil, get him back to his room."

The hippy looked up, alert at being instructed. "What was that Rick?" he asked, edging closer.

Rick suddenly snapped. "I SAID GET HIM TO HIS ROOM!" he screamed deafeningly in the tall hippy's face, fists clenched and body shaking with anger, before shoving past both of them and stalking darkly downstairs.

Mike thumbed at the collapsed medical student on Rick's floor. "Better do as he says, Neil," before leaving the long-haired hippy to it, in a state of considerable anxiety at the prospect.

Rick crashed down onto the drawing room sofa, shivering vaguely with shock. He crossed his arms hard over his chest, glowering at the television, seeing nothing, one leg tapping in agitation.

He bit his bottom lip unthinkingly before gasping in pain at the healing cut there.

Mike soon came down the stairs and busied himself on the phone, probably about some dodgy deal with one of the Balowski brothers.

The anarchist stared unseeingly ahead, bright, rapid movement on the television screen meaning nothing to him. He heard more tentative footsteps some minutes later, and Neil's timid voice.

"He's in bed, Rick."

The anarchist took in the words but ignored the speaker utterly. He stood in stony silence and proceeded to mount the stairs once more, his heart still paining him with tremors of shock.

It was another hour before Rick found the nerve to leave his own room where he had been essentially hiding away, trying to consolidate the furious flurries of aghast disbelief and gouging doubt in his head, whilst at the same time, a blank numbness parasitised his thoughts.

He went to Vyvyan's door, listened for signs of wakefulness, and heard nothing.

Twisting the handle as quietly as possible, he entered, closing the door behind him, and it occurred to him that he had never been in this room before. The faint, melancholic rain that had begun to detach from pregnant clouds pattered noisily on the window, the curtains open just a crack. The miserable afternoon shed just enough light to see clearly by.

Very cautiously, he approached the bland but surprisingly neat bed, on which Neil had managed to deposit Vyvyan, who was curled, fully-clothed, on top of the covers, goosebumps on the skin of his pale arms.

Not entirely sure what he was doing, he extended a hand, slowly moving it towards the unconscious punk, when he frowned in confusion. One of Vyvyan's wrist cuffs had ridden partially up his forearm, and a deep, dark scar was obvious on the small amount of white skin that showed.

Curiosity got the better of the anarchist, and he started to undo the cuff, as carefully as possible so as not to wake the flame-haired punk.

Quick as a flash, Vyvyan opened his eyes and seized him by the wrist in a ferocious grip, practically snarling in anger. Rick yelped in shock, trying to yank his arm away.

The punk sat up suddenly, eyes cold and hard as ever, fingers digging sharply into Rick's wrist, nails forming painful half-moon dents. Groaning in pain, the anarchist landed a quick, hard punch to Vyvyan's stomach, the punk gasping, but maintaining his grip. Rick seized a handful of Vyvyan's spiked hair, yanking hard, the punk yowling in agony, then grabbing Rick by the front of his shirt, dragging him bodily down onto the bed and slamming a heavy hand against his throat, mounting him and pushing down hard with his palm as he weighted the brunette down with his own body.

The anarchist flailed, coughing, strangled cries sounding from him, but he grimaced with satisfaction as he managed to kick Vyvyan hard between the legs, the punk screeching in response.

There was a half-second's pause, and Vyvyan slid the brutal grip of his hand from Rick's throat to his jaw, the anarchist still gurgling and bucking fruitlessly, now totally pinned down by the punk's heavy body. Their eyes met briefly - pale, watery aqua, and vivid, cold blue, and there was a moment's indescribable clarity, before Vyvyan seized Rick's mouth in a vicious kiss.

The anarchist tensed hard, then writhed even harder, tiny, stifled noises against the punk's mouth as he was kissed violently. Vyvyan was nipping his lips painfully with every forceful, clumsy kiss, tasting of stale vodka and heat. Rick fumbled one hand to the back of the punk's neck, grabbing the thick chain and preparing to yank it to throttle him and end the assault, but instead found himself seizing one denim-clad shoulder in pleasure as the fully-clothed punk thrust hard between his legs and began to grind rapidly and powerfully against him.

Vyvyan momentarily pulled back from Rick's mouth, one strong hand blindly reaching down and grabbing one of the anarchist's denim-clad thighs, lifting it sharply and continuing to pound even harder between his legs, the mattress squeaking loudly in protest at the frantic rhythm. Rick sobbed in disbelief and pleasure, finding himself rock-hard and close to an adolescent release. The punk lowered his head again and bit down hard on the side of Rick's neck, muffling his own feverish, rapid breaths and vague groans.

The relentless friction soon came to a head, the two inexperienced students both shuddering hard, Vyvyan gasping and drawing blood from Rick's neck, the anarchist yelling out sharply, struggling to thrash out his orgasm under the crushing, pounding weight of the punk, his fingers raking red marks down Vyvyan's damp arms in the cool gloom. Vyvyan's hips slowed, thrusting hard but without rhythm, the bedsprings easing their noisy, squeaking complaints.

They shivered and sighed out their climaxes, chests heaving with exertion. There were a few seconds of sweat-tainted stillness, and Vyvyan pulled back slowly, shakily getting off of Rick and moving back, as the exhausted anarchist pulled himself up on trembling arms, neither looking at each other. Neither lingering, nor hastening escape, Rick stood, eyes down, and left the cool, dim room, leaving the punk sitting silent on his bed.


	6. Chapter 6

Neil was serving dinner that evening as torrential rain hammered like ball bearings on the windows, the sky outside inky black and the air freezing cold. The three other housemates sat at their usual places at the table, and the mood was remarkably subdued. Rick had his chin in one hand and was staring at the tabletop, having been nearly silent all afternoon. Vyvyan smoked a cigarette slowly, his other hand toying distractedly with one of his favourite knives, gently gouging the tip into the wooden surface.

Mike lowered his magazine as Neil pottered about at the stove. His expression was difficult to ascertain behind the dark sunglasses. He noted the small, sore-looking wound on Rick's neck, then raised his voice over the sound of the downpour.

"Not that I'm complaining, but we've usually lost a few plates and teeth by this point of an evening."

Rick and Vyvyan appeared to completely ignore him. Even as the 'leftover surprise' was served up and placed in front of them by the long-suffering Neil, there was little reaction.

Mike calmly rolled up his magazine and lightly batted the punk over the head with it, and Vyvyan jolted to alertness, looking confused. Putting down his knife and stubbing out his cigarette, he began to eat mechanically.

"Vyv, give Rick a wake-up call," Mike ordered, gesturing at the daydreaming anarchist sitting at the far end of the table.

The punk froze, knife and fork in hand. Licking his lips and blushing faintly, he spoke quietly, eyes on his food.

"Rick. Dinner."

Even Neil's mouth fell open at the punk's passiveness, and Mike cocked his head quizzically.

Rick blinked and started eating, still looking like he was in another world.

After dinner, they settled to watch 'Bastard Squad'. While Neil cleared away the plates and cutlery, Mike and Vyvyan settled, while Rick poured himself a drink. Approaching the sofa and hesitating, he chose the rickety chair rather than the space beside Vyvyan.

Mike was slightly relieved when Vyvyan smacked Neil over the head for talking over the programme's narrator, but still couldn't fathom his bizarre behaviour. However, being the cool guy of the house, he didn't let it bother him unduly.

Rick was in his dimly lit bedroom, half-heartedly working on a sociology essay late that night, the freezing rain still battering the windows and making concentration difficult. His heavy-lidded blue eyes stared tiredly at his notes, and he tapped his biro on the paper, whilst his free hand fiddled with his greasy pigtails.

He heard somebody clearing their throat outside his door, the floorboards in the corridor creaking as the visitor shifted their weight.

Suddenly breathless, he raised his voice, still facing away from the door.

"…Vyvyan?"

There were a few seconds of silence, and the door opened slightly. Rick licked dry lips, listening to heavy footsteps approach him after closing the door. He felt his face burning, and looked back down at his notes, written in neat, loopy handwriting.

Turning his head slightly, he saw turn-up jeans, a Motorhead T-shirt, a studded belt.

Seconds passed, and neither moved or spoke.

Rick finally heaved out a nervous, impatient breath. "What is it?"

He flinched and turned around sharply as a hand cuffed him lightly on the back of the head.

"WHAT WAS THAT FOR?" He yelled, his temper flaring up in an instant.

"…Haven't hit you much today," Vyvyan shrugged, the chains on his denim jacket tinkling as he did so. His expression was blank, impossible to read.

"OH, MY HEART BLEEDS FOR YOU, VYVYAN!" The anarchist spat, before huffily turning back to his work, feeling his blushes scorching his face. He was so on edge he saw silver stars pulsing at the edge of his vision. The hand holding the biro was already damp.

A few seconds later, he felt fingers tug lightly on one of his pigtails, and he blinked, breathing hard, heart palpitating.

"Vyvyan…I'm not…you can't…" Rick groaned in frustration, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

The punk cuffed him again, harder this time. "WHY NOT?" He yelled, blue eyes cold with rage once more. "I'M TRYING HERE!"

Rick stood up, turned, and squared up to the punk in fury. "I'M NOT INTERESTED VYVYAN!"

"WHY NOT, POOF?" Vyvyan screamed back at him, face red with temper.

"JUST _LOOK_ AT YOU, VYVYAN!" Rick retorted deafeningly, chest heaving with anger.

There was a painful moment of silence, and Rick lowered his eyes as the punk's face fell. The flame-haired medical student shifted his weight self-consciously, scratched his face, and turned, quickly making his way to the door, hauling it open, and exiting in tense silence.

Rick collapsed back onto his chair, heaving a huge sigh.

"…Bloody hell…"

*Once more, thanks for the reviews, I'm glad you enjoy it! Feedback always appreciated.* xx


	7. Chapter 7

Vyvyan stalked breathlessly back to his room, slamming the door, and hauling his heavy chest of drawers in front of it, barring it, SPG complaining as his cage wobbled precariously.

He had no shortage of knives, and from the display rack on the dreary wall, he plucked a short, slightly curved hunting knife with a devastatingly sharp blade. With slightly shaking fingers, he undid the studded leather cuff from his left wrist and exposed the ghost-white skin, criss-crossed with ugly pink and white scars. The freshest was thick and red, made only a few months ago with this same knife, at about the time that the punk had had to accept that he was attracted to Rick.

It was hardly the first time he had taken a blade to himself, but after a long hiatus, the frustration and resentment he felt at his unwanted connection with the anarchist, had driven him to start again in earnest. His high pain threshold simply meant that he had to do himself more damage to feel the buzz of relief, no matter how fruitless or temporary it was.

The relentless patter of cold rain against his window was a mere dream as he sat on the edge of the bed, breathing in deeply and slashing the blade across the underside of his wrist, gasping quietly. Above him, the dim, bare lightbulb flickered a little.

He gazed down at the white skin, at the thin red line, barely birthing a few tiny beads of blood.

Grimacing with frustration, he drew the razor-sharp blade once more over the cut with furious force, this time splitting the skin wide, hot, dark blood spilling over his chilled wrist and down his forearm, and dripping onto his lap with shocking speed. Tossing aside the knife with a shaking hand, he stood and rummaged for tissues in the drawers that blocked the grimy door. Blotting the warm, red liquid, slowly stemming the flow, he smeared the excess from his forearm, leaving it pinkish-looking, and as bitter-smelling and coppery as the now saturated tissue.

The punk breathed heavily for a few seconds, before deftly replacing his studded cuff, wincing a little at the rough material on the open wound. He never bothered to clean the cuts. The blood on the knife was already congealing into a sticky, scarlet mess, as he knocked it carelessly to the floor and laid back on his bed, one arm thrown over his head, his left hand pulsing painfully on his chest. A numb kind of calm settled over him, and he closed his eyes.

Back in his room, Rick sulkily licked at the cut on his bottom lip, tired-eyed and feeling dismal as he stared down at his sparse sociology notes. He had just about gotten over the shock of Vyvyan's actions that day, and was almost over the shock of having had his first orgasm that hadn't been brought about by his own hand. Well – to tell the truth, he was just trying not to think about either of those things.

He had convinced himself that anybody who found themselves in the situation that he had, would naturally become aroused – it was the body's instinctive and unavoidable response. He had never considered Vyvyan as anything other than an almighty thorn in his side – although, there had been rare occasions that could almost be described as amicable between them – usually when they were both ganging up on the bloody hippy. To see something other than psychopathy being displayed by the punk – something practically _human_, was so bizarre to him as to be downright disturbing.

The anarchist sighed heavily and licked his lips once more, the flesh still slightly sore from Vyvyan's enthusiastic nipping and biting earlier. Before today, he had never been kissed, and somehow his first had been a drunken, clumsy smooch from a sociopathic male medical student.

Shifting his papers and textbooks from the desk, his hands wandered to his pockets, and he came up with the crumpled note that he had intended the punk to read earlier. Hesitating for a moment, he proceeded to squash the note into a ball and fling it into his bin.

A half-hearted brainwave flushed into his consciousness, and his pale, watery eyes widened. Not only was Vyvyan presumably a poof (and a virgin poof at that), there was also the weird matter of the wounds on his arms. In a few short hours, his entire perceptions of the punk had been turned upside down. And whatever the truth was, Rick intended to make it his business to find out.

It was past 2am, and Vyvyan was still lying on his back, bold blue eyes stinging with tiredness, but his body unwilling to sleep. The weak, bare bulb buzzed quietly, the corners of the cell-like room practically in shadow. The tumultuous rain had ceased, leaving a clear, black night and cold, weightless air.

The punk glanced over to the wall, and realised with some irritation that at some point during the day, Neil had taken it upon himself to seal up the hole that had been punched into the bathroom.

There was a loud rap on his door, and the punk groaned.

"Vyvyan! VYVYAN!" Rick's sing-song voice sounded out beyond the punk's door.

"PISS OFF RICK! IT'S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!" Vvyvan yelled, rubbing his eyes wearily.

"LET ME IN, VYVYAN!" The anarchist hollered, pounding agitatedly on the door.

The medical student got to his feet, stormed to his door, and shoved the barricading dresser aside in annoyance, yanking open the door. "WHAT DO YOU WANT, POOF?"

"OH, THAT'S _BRILLIANT,_ COMING FROM YOU, VYVYAN!"

The flame-haired medical student tore open the door, fuming. The self-righteous anarchist strode into his room, still in his badge-covered blazer and jeans, hands on hips.

Vyvyan sat down heavily on his bed, too tired to start a proper fight. He stifled a yawn and waited for the brunette to say his piece.

"I've been thinking about your actions today Vyvyan! You absolutely _fancy_ me, don't you? I suppose you want to snog me, and make _love_ to me?" Rick spat teasingly, a gleam of opportunity in his eyes.

The punk sighed, shoulders slumped and eyes on the floor, silent for a moment before replying quietly.

"Yes."

The anarchist sneered, trying to hide his surprise. "Well…well don't think you're going to get a chance! And what are these all about anyway..,?" He carelessly seized the punk's left wrist and yanked at the fastened cuff.

Out of nowhere, Vyvyan produced a flick-knife, grabbed Rick's collar and pulled him close, jabbing the deadly blade's tip none-too-gently under his chin.

"I'm warning you Rick," he murmured darkly, eyes cold and hard.

Rick tried to stay cool, swallowing nervously as the tip nicked his skin. Recklessly batting aside the knife, he shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't really care _anyway_ Vyyvyan." He sat heavily beside the bemused-looking punk, and looked at him expectantly, pale eyes wide and hair wild and messy as always.

The flame-haired punk frowned, baffled. "What?"

Rick rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. There was a faint colour in his cheeks, and he smiled a little awkwardly. "…No biting this time," he instructed randomly, before kissing the punk on the lips, sucking softly.

Vyvyan flinched in shock before sighing helplessly, eyes closing and resisting the urge to nip at the anarchist's lips. Dropping the knife to the bed, he clumsily brought both his hands to Rick's waist, trying to reciprocate the kiss as gently as possible. He could practically feel the heat of the anarchist's blushes against his skin as the quiet sucking noises of their lips seemed somehow deafening in the dead silence of the late hour. Likewise, the sound of Rick shifting slightly and leaning harder into the kiss was impossible to ignore, and, already desperately excited, Vyvyan sped up the kiss, breathing fast and heavy between smooches.

Rick opened his mouth a little and coyly flicked his tongue against the punk's, who groaned in pleasure, his tongue beginning to copulate with the brunette's, the lack of friction delightful and the heat and wetness of Rick's mouth thrilling him. Hands trembling, he blindly felt for Rick's hands, and brought them urgently to his hard-on, forcing the anarchist's palm roughly against his jeans.

Rick disconnected the kiss sharply, pulling his hands from Vyvyan's insistent grip. He huffed a nervous laugh, face bright red, chest heaving. The punk looked dazed and powerlessly aroused. Rick tried not to look at the tent in the punk's jeans as he stood up, grinning clownishly.

"Night Vyvyan," he said quietly, as he exited the room quickly, with a small, silly grin still on his face.

The overwhelmed punk remained silent as he sat alone, his face exhibiting disbelief.

A few minutes later, he had finished himself off with one damp hand, his strangled gasps and groans of ecstasy restrained with difficulty.


	8. Chapter 8

Vyvyan awoke late the next morning, feeling refreshed and a lot lighter in spirit than he had in a while. With an ease born of repetition, he scooped hair gel from a half-empty tub on the windowsill and re-spiked his fiery orange hair, before wiping his sticky palms on his jeans.

Cautiously exiting his room, he glanced out into the grimy corridor and saw no signs of life. The window at the top of the stairs illuminated everything with cold, but bright, milky sunlight.

He stood awkwardly outside Rick's door, ostensibly adjusting his belt and neck-chain, debating whether to wake him, or at least wait for a minute to see if the anarchist emerged. He tried not to let himself think about the motivations behind this idea. He could always give the sociology student a punch or two just to let him know that he hadn't gone completely sissy.

He jumped a little as Neil emerged timidly onto the landing, lank-haired and grim-looking.

"Oh, morning Vyv," he greeted with a cheery wave, upon noticing the punk.

"Neil," Vyvyan replied in a dark, non-committal voice, arms folded and head down. He waited till he heard the tall hippy's footsteps disappear downstairs, and took a deep breath, face beginning to burn a little as he tapped quietly on the anarchist's door.

Scratching his forehead tentatively, avoiding the silver star studs, he stood silent and self-conscious, listening to faint groans and rustling from inside the room.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and licked his lips as the door opened, Rick peering out sleepily in his white vest and jeans, his hair scruffy and unclean.

"Vyvyan," the anarchist nodded, a smirk on his face, white teeth flashing.

The punk nodded, hair almost painfully vibrant and eyes pale and clear in the bright light of the corridor. "Rick," he replied feebly, fingers shoving further into his tight pockets as he cleared his throat, cheekbones faintly pink.

Rick gave a brief, predatory grin, thoroughly enjoying the punk's discomfort, and planning to milk it completely. Leaning casually against the doorframe, hand on one hip, he looked at the punk expectantly, fighting laughter by biting hard on the inside of his cheek. He saw Vyvyan's pale blue eyes glance down at his shoulders and biceps and then flick away guiltily, and he almost wriggled with cruel delight.

"What's the matter Vyvyan?" Rick asked as though nonplussed, his face innocently curious.

The flame-haired punk glanced down the corridor, totally discomfited, and he shrugged vaguely.

"Just…morning," he murmured, his usually ghost-white face a definite coral colour now.

Rick couldn't hold his laughter any more, and he broke out in barely-restrained giggles.

Glowering, the punk stared at the mocking anarchist, drew back his arm, and promptly slapped him stingingly hard across the face. Rick gasped in pain, one hand flying to his reddening cheek.

"Oh, that's FINE behaviour! I made you _hard_ if you'd forgotten VYVYAN!" Rick spat, pointing an accusing finger.

"I made _you_ come," the punk retorted coolly.

Rick's intended comeback was silenced as his mouth snapped shut, before he stuttered a reply.

"Well…well never mind about that now," the anarchist muttered, looking highly uncomfortable.

It was Vyvyan's turn to smirk, and he folded his arms across his chest, the chains on his denim jacket tinkling faintly.

"I'm off to college. Dissection class. I'll bring you back a spleen," the punk announced, before stomping off along the corridor and downstairs.

"VERY FUNNY VYVYAN!" Rick screeched after him, huffily going back into his bedroom and slamming the door.

After class, Vyvyan lumbered off with his medical student friends to the Kebab and Calculator, still in high spirits, the air cold and weightless but the sky bright, the watery yellow sun doing its' best to shine.

The group got a collective suspicious glare from the other patrons that afternoon as the leather-clad, spike-haired, heavily pierced students strode into the gloomy pub. Nursing half a brain in a small jar, the flame-haired punk ordered Babycham all round, thanking God that his mum wasn't working today.

Settling down, the group prepared to enjoy an afternoon of boozing and civilian harassment.

Rick was painfully bored, and after pottering around the flat for an hour or so, he wandered out into the scrubby back garden, shielding his eyes against the surprisingly bright winter sun. Capricious, stiff breezes toyed with dead leaves littering the grey ground, teasing them up into the air before letting them drop in crisp, dismal piles. Settling down on a chilled, grubby lawn chair, he pulled out his notepad from the inside of his badge-covered blazer, and a half-empty biro, and sighed thoughtfully. He almost welcomed the refreshing cold air after the stuffiness of the house. Shivering slightly, grateful for the weak sunlight on his face, he crossed his legs and balanced the well-worn notepad on his lap, beginning to write slowly.

Vyvyan returned to the share-house later that afternoon, still lovingly clutching his specimen jar, and holding two wallets that were patently not his in the other hand. A little tipsy, he stomped heavily upstairs, his steel-cap boots punishing each step. He glanced at Rick's bedroom door as he passed it, noting that it was open and the room unoccupied. Both hands full, he viciously kicked his own door and made his way in through the now splintered threshold. Carefully setting down the jar with the brain that floated gently in yellowing preserving fluid, he deftly pulled the cash from the stolen wallets, stuffing the notes in his jeans pocket.

Making his way down to the kitchen, he pulled a beer can from the fridge and opened it easily, taking a swig and sighing contentedly. Sipping the cool, frothy liquid, he peered surreptitiously out of the window, seeing the anarchist looking uncomfortably cold but deeply engrossed as he sat in the patchy garden, writing in that godforsaken notepad. The left-handed sociology student looked awkward as he scribbled across the page – probably another shitty poem, the punk thought.

There appeared to be no sign of the other two housemates, and Vyvyan opened the back door, stepping heavily out into the garden and approaching the oblivious anarchist silently. He got within a few feet of the brunette, and stood sipping his beer casually. Without evident emotion, he watched Rick shiver as a particularly sharp breeze picked up and buffeted them both.

Moving behind the anarchist, he suddenly slid his hand to Rick's face, clamping it over his mouth. The brunette jumped and groaned in shock, before slapping away the punk's hand in irritation. Bright red, he hastily secreted his notepad back inside his blazer.

"What do you want, Vyvyan?" he spat, folding his arms huffily.

The flame-haired punk dragged another chair from the edge of the lawn and plonked it beside the brunette, sitting down leisurely, sipping his beer. Swallowing, he wordlessly offered the can to the anarchist, who eyed it with distaste, before relenting and taking a quick swig, wincing slightly.

"Where's Mike and the hippy?" Vyvyan asked, his unusual croaky voice mellow and calm for once.

"Mike's got a date," Rick shrugged, eyes on the sparse, cold lawn. He took another gulp of beer, sighing moodily.

A little wobbly from the drinks he had consumed, Vyvyan shifted his chair closer to Rick's, until they touched. "What are you writing, girly?" the punk asked, blinking dizzily. The anarchist ignored him, so he extended his hand to Rick's chest, about to slide his fingers under his blazer for the notebook.

Rick frowned and grabbed his wrist, steadying him and glaring daggers at him.

Unfazed, the flame-haired punk placed his other hand on Rick's denim-clad thigh, and slid it up to his crotch, kneading gently.

The anarchist let out a faint, surprised little noise, his grip on Vyvyan's wrist loosening, then tightening hard. Breathlessly, he watched the punk massage him firmly.

Vyvyan watched Rick's face with fascination as he palmed the anarchist's crotch hard, squeezing slightly. Rick was still shell-shocked, eyes fluttering as he half-heartedly resisted the punk's attention.

Neil's distant voice was heard coming from inside the house, and Vyvyan pulled away from Rick as though he had touched fire, folding his arms tightly over his chest, staring at nothing. The hippy got to the open doorway and called out to them.

"Guys – there's some lentils in the kitchen if you want!"

The two pink-faced students simultaneously flicked two fingers up at him, and he soon disappeared.

Rick took a long swig of his beer, leg tapping agitatedly. Face set in a stern frown; he decided to down the beer in one. Vyvyan watched his throat bob with every swallow. For once, the anarchist's skin was clear, though it had a pink tinge at the moment. Licking his lips, Rick crushed the empty can.

The alcohol gave him a sense of warmth as a sharp, bitter breeze assaulted them. He glanced at Vyvyan's ghost-white arms, seeing them covered with goosebumps. Tutting, he sneered at the punk.

The flame-haired punk met his cold, pale stare coolly. "What, poof?"

Rick rolled his large, watery eyes in disdain. "Forget it." He stood up on chilled legs and stretched, fussily adjusting his unclean, messy hair and the myriad political badges on his blazer.

The punk followed suit, hands in pockets, waiting for the anarchist to finish preening.

Rick eyed him suspiciously, before making his way back to the flat. A few steps from the door, he halted sharply, rounding on the punk angrily.

"STOP FOLLOWING ME VYVYAN!"

The medical student looked unperturbed. "If you'd rather finish _yourself_ off…" he shrugged.

"HONESTLY VYVYAN, DON'T BE SO FOUL!" Rick yelled back in indignation, blushing heroically.

The punk pushed past him, going to the fridge once more and pulling out an armful of beers. "Come on poof," he instructed, and an almost apoplectic Rick stormed after him, screeching.

"DON'T THINK YOU'RE GOING TO GET ME INTO BED WITH YOU, VYVYAN!"

There was an awkward silence and Neil, sitting inconspicuously at the table, stared oddly at the anarchist. Vyvyan had already made his way upstairs, and Rick dashed after him, red suede boots thumping loudly on each step.

Vyvyan had already settled on Rick's bed, popped open another beer, and offered it to the anarchist as he stormed into the room. The brunette snatched it from him and took a long gulp rebelliously.

"YOU'RE NOT STAYING VYVYAN!" Pale eyes already slightly hazy from the alcohol, the usually sober anarchist sat down heavily at his desk, sneering at the punk reclining on his bed, luxuriously glugging beer.

"You might want to close the door if we're gonna shag…" the punk said, grinning fiendishly.

"NO, WE'RE ABSOLUTELY _NOT_, VYVYAN!" The punk winced at the deafening volume of Rick's enraged screams, but couldn't help smirking. Getting up calmly, he shut Rick's bedroom door himself, locking it.

"Relax Rick," he commanded, settling back down on the bed.

Practically wriggling with fury and indignation, the anarchist moodily drank his beer, his head swimming a little, his temper subsiding slowly as he drained the amber liquid.

He tossed the empty can in the wastepaper bin under his desk, and glared at the flame-haired punk, who was poker-faced and quiet, just staring back at the anarchist with cold blue eyes.

"I don't want to sleep with you," Rick muttered darkly.

Vyvyan finished his beer and scooted nearer to Rick, who huddled on his desk chair, scowling. Head buzzing from booze, he pulled off his denim jacket, chains and studs clinking. Moving deliberately, his hands shaking only a little, he undid his studded belt, and pulled his black T-shirt, emblazoned with a metal band logo, from the waistband of his tight jeans.

Rick stared in disbelief as the ghost-skinned punk removed his T-shirt, revealing very smooth white skin. The heavy bike padlock swung on its chain, clunking noisily against his sternum.

Rick felt his half-hard cock twitch, and he shifted on his chair, hazy-eyed and horny.

He didn't bother resisting when the flame-haired punk took his hands and dragged him up onto the bed, kissing him hard.

Rick planted both hands on the punk's cool chest, shakily smoothing them up and down the skin as their tongues mated wetly, their kisses getting harder and rougher by the second. The anarchist's hands blundered up to the punk's face, both students gasping passionately and nipping gently at each other's lips. Vyvyan blindly yanked Rick's blazer off, tossing it to the floor, and clumsily picked open the buttons of his shirt, the anarchist already sighing needily.

The punk pulled back for a few breathless seconds to look at Rick's bare chest, then lunged back into the kiss, knocking the anarchist backwards onto the bed, both students writhing inelegantly, hands groping and squeezing indiscriminately. Lying heavily on top of the anarchist, the slim punk fumbled one hand down to Rick's flies, popping them open and pushing his fingers inside, taking hold of Rick's shaft and pumping energetically, thrilling at the hard, warm flesh, and the keening noises the anarchist was making, his hips thrusting weakly into Vyvyan's fist.

It was over in a less than a minute, Rick's face pink and damp, his hair slick on his forehead. The punk watched, mesmerised, as the anarchist orgasmed, his chest heaving, his fingers clawing at Vyvyan's shoulders, his voice ragged and desperate with pure pleasure. Wasting no time, he grabbed one of Rick's trembling, wet hands, and pushed it encouragingly into his own jeans, sighing in ecstasy as the anarchist began to obediently, if weakly, work at his shaft. He barely noticed the cooling semen running down his wrist and under his cuffs, as the sleepy-eyed brunette took him over the edge with aching fingers.

"Ugh…_fuck_, _Rick_," he wheezed, grinding powerfully against the anarchist, deliriously kissing the heated, damp skin of Rick's chest as he ejaculated. Collapsing heavily onto the boy below him, they both heaved for breath, ribcages fighting against each other for warm, sex-scented air. It was some time before either of them made a move to disengage from each other, and they spent several minutes recovering, bodies sweetly tangled.


	9. Chapter 9

As he lay cooling, Rick found the strength to shove the punk off of him, and Vyvyan rolled to the side languidly.

"I still don't _like_ you, Vyvyan," the anarchist mumbled moodily, as he did his flies back up with damp fingers. The medical student sighed blissfully, distracting himself with pulling increasingly hard on Rick's greasy pigtail to see how painful it would be for the brunette.

Rick tried to ignore him, fumbling one hand to his desk and plucking a bunch of tissues from a box, looking highly displeased as he cleaned himself up, tossing one carelessly to the punk.

Vyvyan grinned fiendishly as he held up his wrist, sticky with semen, and pretended to lick it.

Rick's face was one of utter horror, and he spluttered, aghast. "VYVYAN THAT'S DISGUSTING!"

Relenting, the punk cleaned himself up, still grinning to himself. "When you've got your breath back we can go for round two," he said calmly.

Rick snapped, practically frothing at the mouth. "FOR GOD'S SAKES _NO_, VYVYAN!"

"Why not?" the punk replied, one curious finger rubbing Rick's left nipple experimentally. "You seemed to enjoy the first one."

Tutting, the anarchist fumed silently, watery blue eyes glaring at the investigative punk's finger, which was trailing over his chest and stomach.

"What _are_ you doing?"

"Exploring," came the distracted reply.

Rick let out a short, humourless laugh. "I don't know why Vyvyan, you've probably been 'exploring' _yourself_ three times a day for the last two years."

The punk ignored the jibe, seemed to hesitate a little, finger paused, then he slowly, awkwardly pecked Rick on the cheek, just under his eye.

The anarchist was still scowling as Vyvyan pulled back, but didn't make a move to avoid the punk, whose body was pressed tightly against his on the narrow bed.

Encouraged, Vyvyan kissed him again on the corner of the mouth, his hand wandering over Rick's abdomen, feeling it twitch at the touch.

Rick turned his head very slightly and caught the next peck on his mouth, closing his eyes lightly and sighing raggedly as the punk began to palm his crotch once more, the anarchist shuddering as his still sensitive and pulsing shaft was groped through his jeans.

Vyvyan pulled back once more, watching Rick's face intently, as he slowed, then stopped his hand completely.

Rick's watery blue eyes opened, eyelids sheened with perspiration, and looked at him questioningly.

The punk picked up one of Rick's languid hands and brought it to his own bare chest. Getting the hint, Rick ran his fingers over the punk's sternum, for the first time taking a proper look at him. His skin was ghostly-white and almost totally hairless, and his body was surprisingly slim. His dark pink nipples stood out on his milky chest, and just under his waistband, his hipbones peaked slightly.

As he dusted his fingers over the punk's soft stomach, the punk flinched hard and cleared his throat awkwardly. Intrigued, Rick tickled him lightly, smirking as Vyvyan wriggled and tried to bat away his hand.

"Who would have thought it, Vyvyan's _ticklish_," the anarchist teased.

"One word and you're dead, poof," the punk murmured, blushing a little.

Rick grinned to himself, trailing his fingers lazily up to Vyvyan's throat, feeling his heightened heartbeat pulsing against his fingertips, then down his upper arms. He avoided going anywhere near the punk's hands. Frowning thoughtfully, he moved to tap and circumvent one of the bright silver star studs with a fingernail, then lifted the heavy solid padlock resting on his chest. He glanced at Vyvyan's face, the punk staring right back at him, and noted the light smattering of pink acne scars on his cheeks, before finally toying with the stiff, gelled peaks of his tri-hawk.

Content with the attention, Vyvyan went back to massaging Rick's thighs and crotch, eyes on the sallow-skinned anarchist's reactions. Rick's eyelids were heavy and he sighed quietly as the punk undid his flies once more, easing his jeans down. Pulling off the red suede boots, he removed his jeans and underwear completely. The anarchist looked uncomfortable as Vyvyan knelt beside him, taking hold of him and pumping slowly, but he soon relaxed under the firm attention, groaning breathlessly.

Rick shuddered, pleasure throbbing through him, his climax building slower and more intensely than before.

The punk was desperately aroused, and shifted slightly. He hesitated, then moved his other hand, which had been planted on Rick's hips to stop him bucking too much, to his mouth. Sucking on one finger, he waited until the anarchist started making strangled noises, panting heavily, before pushing it hard inside the brunette.

The anarchist was silent for a few seconds, then let out a grating yell, arching his back, Vyvyan struggling to hold Rick still, and thrusting his finger sharply in and out of him.

"Oh, _Vyv_," the brunette wheezed, harshly pulling Vyvyan's fingers away from his shaft, and grabbing the punk's wrist roughly, forcing him deeper inside him. The medical student smirked and pounded his finger into the other boy, his wrist a blur as Rick sobbed, on the brink of ecstasy. Unknown to Vyyyan, he was thudding Rick's prostate hard, and it wasn't long before the anarchist fumbled to grip Vyvyan's spare hand, squeezing it tight with wet, hot fingers as he orgasmed, yelling hoarsely.

The punk tried with great difficulty to hold Rick still, his hips bucking violently, his untouched shaft spurting seed up to his chest and throat. Vyvyan began to pull out his finger, and the anarchist yowled in frustration, forcing him back inside for a few moments to massage away the dizzying aftershocks.

Afterwards, soaked in sweat and sighing greedily, the anarchist twitched and shivered, eyes lightly closed and expression blissful.

Vyvyan's hand was still being held tight in Rick's, and he gave the damp fingers a little squeeze as he pulled out. On impulse, he swiped a thumb through the cooling seed on Rick's chest , and had a discreet little taste before beginning to blot the anarchist clean with tissue.

Rick was grinning clownishly as he sat up, panting hard. Vyvyan shifted towards him, absolutely aching with lust and desperate for release.

"Rick, can I…" he murmured, breathlessly trying to part the anarchist's legs.

Rick jumped and frowned. "No, Vyvyan," he said flatly, watching the punk's face fall as he groaned in disappointment. The flame-haired medical student tried again, more forcefully, panting in need.

"VYVYAN!" The anarchist snapped at him, pushing him off.

"I just need…" the punk murmured, face reddening. Rick sighed and reached to Vyvyan's flies, pulling them wide open and grabbing him, rubbing quickly.

The punk whimpered slightly, kissing Rick sloppily on the cheek. The anarchist was expressionless as he finished the punk off.

Vyvyan came quietly, gasping against the brunette, holding his waist for support.

Rick got off the bed and dressed silently as Vyvyan shakily found his T-shirt and jacket and pulled them back on.

"Um, Rick? Are we…?"

"Are we _what_, Vyvyan?" The anarchist snapped back.

"Nothing," the punk replied quietly, frowning as Rick opened his door and stood by it expectantly, glaring at him.

"You can go now, Vyvyan," the brunette said flatly.

Bristling, the punk stood defiantly, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and firing one up rebelliously. Taking a deep drag, he stomped over to the brunette and promptly shoved the burning end into Rick's neck.

Vyvyan thundered out of the room to the sound of the anarchist's furious, agonised screams.


	10. Chapter 10

He had stomped a few heavy steps towards his own room when Rick came cannoning violently into him, grabbing his neck chain from behind and yanking it hard, pushing him face-first into the wall. The anarchist was screeching in fury as he hauled on the heavy bike chain, before Vyvyan elbowed him savagely in the ribs, spinning round and seizing a fistful of Rick's greasy, wild hair and slamming his head against the wall, pinning him there with his superior strength and whipping out a small, razor-sharp knife.

Rick struggled, panting and seething, an expression of agony and rage on his face. He gasped sharply as the tip of the blade dug under his ribcage, piercing the skin and drawing blood. Vyvyan's hands were trembling, and he heaved for breath, his nose centimetres from the anarchist's, their exhalations hot and damp against each other's mouths.

The punk fought to control himself, shivering with anger. "I won't miss you, Rick," he hissed venomously.

Rick whimpered in pain, his head pounding and dizzy, the knife tip cold and brutal under his skin, his own warm blood trickling out and dripping down the blade.

"I…I think we both know…that that's not true," he replied in a tight groan, a nervous smile flickering fleetingly across his lips. He winced as the punk's vicious grip in his hair tightened menacingly, and the knife tip jabbed warningly deeper.

"Vyv_ please_," he begged desperately, tears of pain shimmering in his pale eyes.

The punk eased back his knife, taking with it a prize of hot blood, but kept it hovering at Rick's stomach. His hands still trembled.

"My life would be a lot easier without you around, Rick," he murmured, a torn, helpless honesty in his cold blue eyes.

"…Vyvyan…you don't _really_ want to hurt me, do you?" the anarchist asked quietly. He sighed in silent relief a few moments later as the punk let go of his hair and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Rick's relief was short-lived, however. He looked down and sobbed in panic at the small but growing wet, red stain on his grey shirt, bitter-smelling and warm. Breathing fitfully, he palmed madly at the damp slit in his shirt, almost hysterical.

Vyvyan hastily pocketed his knife and took one of Rick's sticky, red-stained hands in his own, pulling him quickly to his own bedroom. Sitting the anarchist down on the edge of his bed, he rummaged in a drawer and located a first aid box from among the myriad materials from his medical course.

Kneeling on the floor in front of him, he lifted Rick's shirt, dabbing at the small wound with an antiseptic wipe, smudging away the darkening smears of blood, and applying a dressing. Feeling quite sick, he slumped back onto the floor, breathing hard. His face was as drained and pale as the anarchist's.

"I thought you _liked_ me, Vyvyan," Rick said helplessly, eyes still shimmering tearfully.

"I do, Rick. A lot," the punk admitted, eyes on the floor, expression miserable. Sighing, he picked up another cleaning wipe and took Rick's hands one at a time, smoothing away the blood on his palms and fingers.

"…Sorry," the punk muttered, as he awkwardly touched Rick's fingertips with his own. The anarchist looked uncomfortable at this, and gently pulled his hands away.

"…No more knives," Rick said bluntly, crossing his arms. When the punk didn't reply, he reached for Vyvyan's left wrist and tapped his studded leather cuff meaningfully. "No more knives, okay?" Vyvyan pulled his arm away moodily, but his face was bright red, and he got to his feet shakily.

"Look, Rick – you'd better go. I've got packing to do." Pale-faced, he picked up a half-full black bin bag from one corner of his room and tossed his hair gel inside.

Rick looked up sharply, frowning. "What! Where are you going, Vyvyan?"

The punk replied distractedly, bundling T-shirts in his bag. "…Going to stay with my friend Tommy 'Bloodbath' McKray for a few days."

"_Whatever_ for?" Rick asked indignantly, glaring at the flame-haired student with something approaching panic.

Vyvyan seemed to ignore him. "Get Neil to look after SPG while I'm gone. He's on a diet, so no more than three takeaways a day."

"ANSWER ME VYVYAN!" The anarchist spat irritatedly.

The punk sighed wearily and responded in quiet tones. "I've just got to get away from this place for a bit. Oh," he added, settling his bin bag by his door and rummaging through his set of drawers. "I know your birthday's months away, but…you might as well have this now." Blushing bright red and looking more uncomfortable than Rick had ever seen him, Vyvyan hastily pushed something into his hands, seized his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stomped from the room.

Rick glanced down and gave a shallow sigh of surprise. Holding the new black notebook in his hands, he flicked through curiously and paused at the last page, where Vyvyan had written something in surprisingly neat and legible handwriting. Closing the notebook quickly, he decided not to read it until the punk was safely out of the house.

Looking, and indeed feeling dispirited, Vyvyan clomped to the front door, glancing into the kitchen and seeing Mike in a bright yellow suit and sunglasses.

"See you in a few days Michael!" he called through, raising one hand in salute.

Mike replied without raising his eyes from his newspaper. "Ta-ta Vyv. If you end up killing anyone, there's plenty of room in the cellar, but I ain't cutting up cadavers for free, savvy?"

Not bothering to look for Neil, the punk opened the front door, wincing at the bitterly cold breeze, and plodded off into the bright afternoon.

Rick had exited Vyvyan's room, and now went to his own, after hearing the front door slam. Flicking through to the words in his new notebook, he read with increasing disbelief.

_Cage of gilded pain release me_

_Why do your bars encase a flighted freedom so revered?_

_Must he wrench my innate passion to light_

_Helpless I am sweetly tortured_

Mouth hanging open, he silently closed the notebook and swallowed, deep in shocked thought.

That evening, Vyvyan stood in the scrubby back garden of his friend's house, staring into a large bonfire that had been lit, crackling noisily and blustering in the cold, clear, black night. He shivered a little despite his proximity to the fire, and swallowed lager, feeling depressed. Music was pumping out of a stereo at an ear-shattering volume, and about twenty punks were yelling, fighting and laughing in the small garden. He scuffed the dry grass with one heavy boot, feeling dismal despite the party atmosphere.

A heavy hand slapping his back startled him, and he glanced round at his friend Bloodbath, who had an impressive black mohawk and two lip rings. Taller and plumper than Vyvyan, he was a fearsome sight.

"Why didn't you bring that bird you've started seeing? We all could have had a go on her," the other punk chuckled nastily.

Vyvyan blushed slightly, eyes stinging from the searing heat of the bonfire, and shrugged. "Oh, you know…" he muttered vaguely, having to raise his voice over the deafening heavy metal music, whose bassline pounded through the air and ground in shuddering reverberations. As he had another sip of lager, a tussling pair of female punks, screeching at each other, bumped into him roughly, and he sighed and made his way back into the house, through the lively, noisy crowd.

Stomping through the kitchen, where a group of punks were getting drinks from the dozens of bottles of spirits, he went upstairs to the spare room where he would be staying. Closing the door, he slumped onto the unmade, grubby bed, and noticed for the first time a telephone on a small table beside him.

He couldn't deny that he was already pining for Rick. For months he had felt sick to his stomach, dwelling on his growing attraction to the anarchist, and now that his feelings were known, he felt no sense of relief at all. He also felt terrible for cutting Rick earlier – but his frustration at Rick's indifferent attitude towards him was such that a punch wouldn't have sufficed. Even before he began to have feelings for the anarchist, Rick was the person he spent the most time with – and long separations would cause him to grudgingly miss him –even if he did just need a punching bag. Now it was ten times as bad – especially as he couldn't even claim to himself that it was a merely physical attraction. The poof was an obnoxious, annoying, arrogant, smug, self-important, loud-mouthed, delusional bastard, but he wouldn't know what to do with himself if he wasn't around.

Rubbing his cold blue eyes, he snatched up the phone impulsively and began to dial.

Rick was half-asleep in bed, wearing only his pyjama bottoms and hugging his teddy bear close to his bare chest, when the phone rang jarringly downstairs. Groaning, he pulled the covers over his head and sighed sleepily. Neil's footsteps were heard hastily going past his door and downstairs.

Just as he was drifting off, there was a timid tapping on his door, followed by Neil's nervous voice.

"Rick? Rick? Vyvyan's on the phone for you…"

The anarchist hesitated for a second, before getting out of bed into the chilly air of his room, his teddy bear held loosely in his hand. He opened his door and nodded briefly at Neil, before slowly going downstairs to the wall-mounted telephone.

Ever since reading the frankly mind-boggling poem that Vyvyan had left in the notebook gift, Rick had been doing a lot of thinking. He had clearly been judging the book by its cover all the time that he had known the punk. There was seemingly a lot beyond the surface of violence and antisocialism.

He had never considered himself attracted to the medical student, but then again, he had never really thought about it. He himself had fancied males before now, not least of all his sociology lecturer, but then again, he liked girls too.

He had to admit to himself, that the things Vyvyan had done to him had been mind-blowing, even the kissing was far more pleasurable than his expectations. He wondered where the punk had learnt it all. For all he knew, Vyvyan had gone to bed with dozens of blokes.

Getting to the phone in the hallway, gloomy and cluttered, and lit only by the streetlight outside the front door, he picked up the phone and cleared his throat.

"Vyvyan?"


	11. Chapter 11

"Rick," Vyvyan replied, fighting to keep the smile from being heard in his voice. He licked his lips as his heart palpitated painfully, chest thudding. He closed his eyes briefly and let out a slow, calming exhale; he would have found his own nervous excitement amusing if it wasn't such an admission of being a sissy girly.

The anarchist glanced around him, at the buzzing late-night darkness of the hallway, making sure he was alone. He lowered his voice slightly anyway.

"Um…thankyou for the…present, Vyvyan," he murmured.

He heard a faint sigh of embarrassment, made crackly by the phone line.

"You woke me up you know Vyvyan," he added softly.

"Don't worry Rick, beauty sleep can't help you now," the punk retorted quietly, grinning to himself. "…I'm…gonna come home tonight."

Rick heard a faint bang on the phone and waited, listening to someone talking loudly and somewhat drunkenly in the room Vyvyan was in, but unable to make out the words.

Bloodbath had pushed his way into the room, holding a can of lager and looking pissed off.

"What're you hiding in here for, it's only midnight!" He grabbed the phone off of the flame-haired punk and put it to his ear.

"Vyvyan?" Rick asked tentatively.

"I knew it! You're a fucking nancy! Chatting to your fucking boyfriend!" Bloodbath screeched, cackling as he chucked the phone receiver down. Tears of merriment streamed down his face as he prepared to open the door and announce the fact.

In one smooth, expressionless movement, Vyvyan seized him by the collar of his leather waistcoat and twisted him round, slamming his right fist into the other punk's nose with a deafening, wet crunch, blood gushing instantly over Bloodbath's lips, chin and T-shirt.

Gurgling sounds of agony bubbled from the heavy-set punk, as Vyvyan snatched a pair of scissors from a desk, and promptly stabbed them into the hand that Bloodbath had planted on the wooden surface, pinning him there.

Strangled screams of pain followed him out as he hastily grabbed his black bag of clothes and stomped downstairs, slipping out of the front door and into the night, starting his twenty-minute walk home.

By the time he reached the front door of the flat and fumbled for his key, he was shivering uncontrollably. His hand trembled with the cold as he managed to unlock the door and stumble inside.

He vaguely heard the television playing in the drawing room as he dumped his bag on the floor, before noticing that the air in the house was just as cold as outside.

"The heating's packed up," came Rick's voice to his right, and he grinned as he saw the anarchist get off of the sofa and approach him.

Rick was in his pyjamas, dressing gown, slippers, and he had wrapped what appeared to be a red tartan picnic blanket around his shoulders and over his head like a cowl. The tassels hung down into his pale blue eyes, which were shining despite his attempts at an indifferent expression, and he was hugging a pink hot water bottle to himself.

Getting close to the shivering punk, he paused a few inches away, swallowing. Both of them breathing hard, they coyly glanced at each other's lips, hesitating, before Rick lightly pecked him. Pulling back for only a split second, he kissed him again, and Vyvyan responded gratefully, sighing.

Rick grinned and pulled him to the sofa, where they both slumped down.

"I'm just watching the end of this. I'm going to bed afterwards, I'm exhausted," Rick told him.

Vyvyan wondered why the anarchist had bothered to stay up at all, but didn't ask. The television was airing some sort of documentary on 70's music. His fingers numb with cold, his breath steaming slightly in front of him, he folded his arms tight across his chest.

Rick glanced sideways at him and opened his blanket, encouraging the punk to shift closer. Vyvyan blushed a little, body bumping into Rick's snugly as the anarchist wrapped the blanket around both of them.

Vyvyan snaked his arm behind Rick's back and snuggled a little closer, comforted by the warmth of Rick's body and feeling sleepy. He rubbed Rick's waist slowly and closed his eyes, dozing, half-listening to the narrator on the television.

He must have slept lightly for ten minutes or so, his arm numb behind Rick's back, when he felt the anarchist shift and stand up. Stifling a yawn, he followed suit, rubbing his bright blue eyes.

"Vyvyan – I thought…since it's so bloody cold…" Rick started, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

The punk looked back at him sleepily. "What?"

"Well…did you want to…well...come with me?"

The punk looked confused, so Rick unceremoniously grabbed his chilled arm and pulled him upstairs to his room, closing the door behind them. Flinging the dark curtains wide, he flicked off the light switch, leaving the room illuminated by the halogen-yellow glow from the streetlamp outside. Pulling back the covers and tossing out his teddy bear, he shrugged off his blanket and dressing gown, kicked off his slippers, and got into the bed.

He slid the hot water bottle down into the end of the bed and looked expectantly at the flame-haired punk.

After a second, Vyvyan pulled off his jacket, T-shirt and jeans, kicking off his boots and trying not to look too eager. Getting in beside Rick, he breathlessly crawled over the anarchist, whose hands went to Vyvyan's pale neck and undid the heavy bike chain, the padlock icy cold.

Vyvyan leant down and kissed him hard, but the anarchist gently pushed him off. "Wait a bit," he murmured, and the punk grudgingly lay down beside him, facing him in the amber gloom.

"Vyvyan…can I ask you some questions?"

The punk sighed tiredly and nodded, shifting a little closer to Rick. Their hands and fingers bumped and both flinched away in modest embarrassment.

The anarchist slid one cool hand to Vyvyan's bare hip, and pushed slowly under the waistband of his underwear, taking hold of him and stroking gently. The punk sighed in pleasure, pale eyelids lowered as he tried to focus on Rick's low voice.

"Do you fancy boys, Vyvyan?" The punk groaned silently, not answering, and Rick proceeded to stop rubbing him.

"…Yes," the punk mumbled, and the anarchist rewarded him with renewed stroking, slow and firm.

"…Do you fancy girls?" He ceased his movements once more, awaiting an answer.

"Sometimes," Vyvyan replied, gasping as Rick continued, smoothing his thumb over his tip roughly. He was already close, and he groaned into the pillow, his stiff gelled spikes flattening and his fingers grasping at the mattress.

"Do you want to sleep with me?" Rick asked huskily, watching Vyvyan writhe and make a strangled noise of frustration as he slowed the attention to his warm, rock-hard shaft.

"Yes," Vyvyan spat impatiently, panting.

"…Are you in love with me?"

Vyvyan made no answer, and Rick slowed right down, teasing his shaft only slightly, pinching the base.

"Come on Vyvyan," the anarchist insisted, wanting an answer.

However though, his words seemed to act as a trigger, and Vyvyan orgasmed as if on Rick's command. He groaned in delightful agony, limbs flexing hard, and thrusting into Rick's loose fist. He sobbed out the aftershocks with his face buried in the pillow, his trihawk messed up beyond recognition.

Rick grinned, watching with fascination, and decided not to push the subject.

Sweating, the punk rolled drunkenly against the anarchist, panting into the pillow.

"Do it to me now," Rick said eagerly, grinning, his square white teeth almost glowing in the dark.

Exhausted, Vyvyan shifted and in the close confines of the single bed, he snaked a damp hand under the heavy covers and pulled down Rick's pyjama bottoms roughly. Taking him in hand, he pumped a few times, then conceded to Rick's 'game.'

"Are you a virgin?"

Rick paused, and so did Vyvyan. Giving in, he nodded. "Yes," he murmured, grinning in pleasure as the punk worked at him skilfully.

"Do you like girls," Vyvyan continued quietly, impulsively kissing the corner of Rick's mouth.

"Yes," came the choked answer, before a sharp groan of pleasure.

"Do you like boys?"

Rick grinned, eyes lowered as he gripped Vyvyan's shoulders with both hands for an anchor.

"Sometimes."

"Do you want to sleep with me?"

Rick opened his mouth but hesitated, and Vyvyan let go of him immediately. It was several seconds before the anarchist answered, hips bucking very slightly, looking for contact.

"..Yes," he replied, and Vyvyan felt a jolt of arousal and excitement. He decided to do away with Rick's ridiculous game, and he pumped the anarchist's shaft hard and fast, the brunette whining and struggling against the flame-haired punk, whose heavy body forced him against the wall and prevented him writhing out his ecstasy.

"_Oh_…_Vyvyan_," the anarchist seethed desperately, climaxing powerfully. The punk panicked as Rick yelled out deafeningly, fighting against him to thrash out the aftershocks. He held him down as he shuddered and groaned, finally stilling and calming, his messy hair and pigtails dark with perspiration and his skin slick. Rick let out a breathless, blissful laugh, grinning clownishly.

"Can we sleep now?" Vyvyan asked him with a small smile, pulling the covers over them both.

Rick nodded, still grinning madly.

"Turn over," the punk instructed gently, and when Rick was facing away from him, he hooked an arm over his waist and squeezed slightly, before closing his eyes.

They were both asleep in minutes, shallow breathing quiet in the chilled, dark air of the bedroom.

_* ~ Thumbs up for hand-job games XD_

_I'll probably finish this fic soon so it doesn't drag on :P Might be a cliffhanger though ;)_

_Em ~ *_


	12. Chapter 12

Vyvyan awoke sharply early the next morning.

The first thing he saw through sleep-blurry eyes was Rick, messy-haired, huddled comfortingly against him in the single bed. The sleeping brunette was breathing in soft susurrations, quietly and peacefully, and his arms were curled against the punk's chest. The room was dark and gloomy, but with a hint of early morning light. They sky outside was grim, wet, and grey.

Vyvyan groaned faintly upon waking, and, after a few moments' hesitation, he hooked an arm around the anarchist's broad shoulders, kissing him on the forehead. Rick let out a faint, gratified sigh, and with sleep-weakened arms, pressed up against the punk, mumbling something unintelligible.

Vyvyan allowed himself to grin with pleasure as Rick snuggled up against him, letting out shallow breaths and faint, sleepy moans.

The punk hugged the anarchist tight, smiling at the simple delight of the act, then pecked him on the lips. Rick, still fast asleep, let out another small purr of pleasure.

An hour later, the weather had not improved, and a light rain spattered consistently upon the grey street. There was a chill in the air, the sky the colour of pigeon down.

Vyvyan had drifted off to sleep once more, and gasped into wakefulness at the insistent attention of Rick's fingers. The anarchist was still huddled tightly against him, his pale blue eyes staring expectantly into his own.

"Morning," Rick said quietly, grinning widely, his hand wandering vaguely up and down Vyvyan's bare waist.

Blinking sleepily, the punk nodded and grinned, flinching as Rick found a ticklish spot.

Without warning, the anarchist kissed him hard, pushing him onto his back and awkwardly mounting him, his intense kisses interrupted by small, sweet bursts of breathy laughter.

"_Rick_," Vyvyan managed to gasp out, thrilled by the heavy anarchist's impulsiveness, feeling Rick's hard-on pushing against his own thigh. He had woken after a particularly pleasurable dream and was himself rock-hard.

He grabbed Rick's broad shoulders and turned him over roughly, laying on top of him and thrusting hard between his legs, grinning at the anarchist's giggles of pleasure.

"Vyvyan – would you…?" Rick mumbled, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, sighing hard as the punk bit his neck gently.

Vyvyan could hardly believe his luck, and swallowed hard, murmuring hopefully. "…You ready?"

The anarchist nodded, grinning madly and breathing hard. The medical student picked open Rick's pyjama top and chucked it carelessly onto the floor after peeling it from the brunette's broad, strong shoulders.

"I'll need some…" Vyvyan quickly glanced round the room, looking excited and desperate.

"Some what?" Rick asked, his pale eyes wide and innocent, and the punk managed a brief grin at the naïve anarchist's response.

Vyvyan spotted a nearly-empty jar of hand cream half-hidden behind a mirror on Rick's desk, and crawled to grab it, twisting the lid and dipping two fingers into the white cream, struggling to restrain himself as Rick slipped off his pyjama bottoms, still grinning childishly.

"Have you done this before, Vvyvan?" Rick murmured, eyes bright as he lay on his back and waited for the punk.

Vyvyan blinked and groaned silently, wishing that Rick would just shut up for once. "…Yes," he admitted, kissing Rick hard before the anarchist could reply. With as much restraint as he could manage, he pushed two fingers inside the brunette, pulling back from the kiss and judging Rick's reactions.

The anarchist flinched for a moment, then his watery blue eyes closed and his fingers scrabbled at the mattress.

"Okay?" Vyvyan asked, bright blue eyes alight with thrill and lust, as he pulled down his own underwear, breathing hard.

Rick nodded vaguely, his hands fisting, then grabbing at Vyvyan's bare arms, as the punk began to pound him with two slick fingers. The punk thrust his fingers madly into the brunette for about two minutes, the brunette whining and spasming constantly, then he kissed Rick sloppily, removing his fingers. The anarchist was clearly close, and twitched and gasped quietly under Vyvyan's administrations.

"Rick, I'm going to…" Vyvyan muttered in warning, as he carefully lifted Rick's heavy hips with both hands, kneeling between the anarchist's legs and slathering more hand cream onto himself with shaky fingers.

Rick nodded, eyelids heavy and chest heaving. He closed his eyes and winced as Vyvyan pushed into him a few centimetres, then opened his pale eyes, surprised at the painlessness.

The punk sobbed as he pushed fully inside Rick, the anarchist blood-hot and indescribably tight around him. He paused for a few moments, trembling slightly, eyes unfocussed. Rick gazed up at him questioningly.

"Rick, I…I can 't hold it – I won't last long," Vyvyan confessed, eyes shutting tight and gasping as he began to thrust into the virgin anarchist.

The mattress creaked and shuddered with the punk's effort, as he began to pound the anarchist mercilessly, making faint, desperate noises of pleasure.

Rick's breath was forced from him with every hard thrust, the punk hunching over him, the bright orange tri-hawk crumpling against his chest. Too surprised to feel pleasure, the anarchist stared down at the wildly thrusting punk, making beautiful noises as he came, shuddering hard, the bed squeaking insanely and knocking against the wall as Vyvyan thumped out his climax inelegantly.

A minute later, as his aftershocks faded, the medical student let out a high-pitched sigh as he pulled out from Rick, his face pink and damp and his eyes hazy. Vyvyan promptly collapsed beside the anarchist, gasping for breath and looking totally dazed.

"…Two _fucking_ years," the punk muttered, and Rick looked at him questioningly before grabbing his hand, wet with perspiration, and stubbornly placing it around his own shaft.

"…One minute, Rick," Vyvyan heaved, looking absolutely exhausted.

Pouting a little, the anarchist pressed closer to the punk, staring at him with selfish, pale eyes and waiting impatiently.

It wasn't long before Vyvyan propped himself up on shaky arms, his skin slippery and hot, and adjusted himself in the bed awkwardly, taking Rick's stiff shaft into his mouth without warning.

The anarchist's mouth fell open, his watery blue eyes wide, before his head fell back and he thrust helplessly into Vyvyan's mouth.

Anticipating Rick's eagerness, the punk tried to stay still while the sociology student writhed and moaned, frowning stoically and trying not to gag as Rick seized the spikes at the back of his head in two hands, tugging as if picking up a cat by the scruff of the neck, and pounding feverishly.

It was over quickly, Rick yelling at a deafening volume, his legs grinding against the bed, his hands yanking agonisingly at Vyvyan's hair.

The punk managed to swallow it all, then pulled away sharply, gasping for air. Rick was giggling breathlessly in pleasure, glistening with sweat and looking absolutely blissful.

Vyvyan, with only a touch of spite towards the prudish anarchist, kissed him hard, forcing Rick to taste himself. The brunette flinched a little, then accepted the kiss, shivering with the effort of pleasure.

Both students were sleepy-eyed as they stared at each other, chests heaving.

"Thankyou," they both murmured simultaneously, before grinning.


	13. Chapter 13

Vyvyan collapsed beside the anarchist, swallowing thickly and sighing, letting his bright blue eyes close. He lay still for a few minutes in the cool grey light of Rick's room, and had just fallen into a light sleep, when the brunette's insistent voice and hands awoke him once more.

"Vyvyan? Are you awake? _What_ was two years?" Rick's voice murmured, as fingers shook his bicep hard.

Groaning, the punk twisted to face the anarchist, eyes still closed, frowning faintly. "Rick, go to sleep," he muttered tiredly.

Rick sighed petulantly, and laid back heavily on his bed, body pressed up against Vyvyan's.

The flame-haired punk was just drifting off again when Rick spoke up once more.

"I bet that wasn't the first time you've done _that_, Vyvyan," he stated, watery blue eyes roaming around his own grimy ceiling, then down to watch the punk's bare chest rising and falling softly with shallow breaths.

Mumbling in bad temper, the punk twisted over in the bed, burying his face in the pillow and tugging the duvet over his head, the air in the room distinctly chilly.

"Vyvyan?" When there was no reply, Rick sulkily huddled up against the punk, resting one hand upon the flame-haired students' waist. He settled himself under his own heavy duvet, enjoying the cocoon of body-heated warmth underneath it, and closed his eyes, preparing to allow himself to drift into grateful dreams.

A faint, tired groan sounded out into the cool air of Rick's bedroom, before Vyvyan murmured.

"…I had a boyfriend. We…started going out when we were fifteen. We broke up just before I moved in here – he turned into a bit of a cunt."

Rick slapped him gently on the arm to reprimand his language, but was intrigued by this new information.

"…It's been two years since I slept with him," Vyvyan admitted quietly. "Or, with anyone."

Rick cleared his throat quietly, about to speak, when Vyvyan continued.

"We were together for a few years. And that's all I'm gonna say about it."

"…What do you mean, he turned into a…you know?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Rick. Go to sleep." Vyvyan snuggled more forcefully into the pillow and tugged the duvet tighter around himself, eyes squeezed tightly closed.

The anarchist relented and settled down, mind buzzing with intrigue. Hands pressed lightly against Vyvyan's back, he closed his watery blue eyes and absorbed the punk's words.

Vyvyan was gone when Rick awoke later that morning. Bright, burning sunlight flooded his room, and he rubbed his pale blue eyes sleepily.

The punk in question was downstairs, the rough brown blanket from his bed wrapped around his shoulders. He stared at the buzzing television blankly, sucking on a cigarette, oblivious to everything.

His mind raced. He had left Rick in bed that morning after acknowledging just how much of himself he had revealed to the anarchist.

He feverishly dragged on the cigarette, leg tapping agitatedly. Mike and Neil were nowhere to be seen. He tugged the heavy blanket tighter around himself, swearing under his breath at the freezing climate of the flat, and his own weakness.

He didn't know what had possessed him to talk about his ex-boyfriend. He had never discussed him with anyone, ever. He had taken great pains to hide the relationship at the time, luckily keeping it secret for the duration, and now he considered that he had already been careless in his dealings with Rick. No-one else had ever known about his attraction to the same sex, and now his proclivities were probably common knowledge thanks to Bloodbath McKray's intervention.

"…He's gonna fucking kill me," he muttered to himself under his breath. Not only were the punks he knew violently intolerant, there was probably a price on his head after attacking the big black-haired bastard.

Shivering faintly, he flicked away the burning stub of his cigarette and stomped it into ashes with his heavy Doc Marten boot, promptly lighting another and sucking on it desperately, torn by conflicting fears and desires.

Rick dressed leisurely, slipping on his grey shirt and his sunshine-yellow dungarees. He couldn't help grinning to himself as he recalled the events of a few hours ago. Technically, he was no longer a virgin, and he had received his first (and distinctly fantastic) blowjob.

Though he would _never_ admit it to the punk, he had found great delight in being held, in sharing a bed with someone, in being kissed chastely. Running his hands through his messy, greasy brown hair, he opened his door and made his way downstairs with only barely-restrained eagerness. He had woken up hard and aroused, and was quite ready to take advantage of Vyvyan to get some release.

Approaching the punk, who was still tightly wrapped in his blanket and on his sixth cigarette, he grinned and sat down on the sofa beside him, blushing faintly.

Vyvyan stared almost lifelessly at the television, sucking on his cigarettes desperately, barely even aware of the anarchist next to him.

He flinched sharply when he felt a wet kiss on his cheek, and he turned to look at the excited-looking brunette.

Rick raised his eyebrows expectantly, teeth flashing in a quick smile. Leaning one hand heavily on Vyvyan's denim-clad thigh, he pushed his mouth against the punk's and gave a few sloppy smooches, his other hand fumbling for the medical student's fingers. Licking his lips at the acrid taste of cigarettes on the punk's mouth, he planted Vyvyan's cool, pale fingers against his own crotch.

To his surprise, the punk pulled away from him sharply, frowning and looking to be in a very bad mood. The flame-haired medical student went back to his cigarette and stared stubbornly at the television, cold blue eyes watering very slightly. He was very pale, and the pink acne scars on his cheeks stood out sharply in contrast.

As he heard Rick inhale to interrogate him, he interrupted him in his unusual, croaky voice.

"That's all you want, isn't it?"

The anarchist was silent for a few seconds. "…What do you mean?"

Vyvyan sighed in restrained temper and shook his head slightly. "Never mind."

Uncertain, Rick stayed in his awkward position, leaning uncomfortably on Vyvyan's leg and trying to get eye contact with him.

"I don't have to go to my lecture for a few hours, Vyvyan," he announced hopefully.

The punk finished his cigarette, stubbed it out on the carpet, and crossed his arms belligerently across his narrow chest.

Starting to feel peeved, Rick got up and promptly settled weightily on the punk's thighs, facing him and forcing himself into Vyvyan's line of sight.

Instinctively, defensively, Vyvyan prepared to shove him off, but the anarchist would have probably cracked his skull open on the television set in the fall.

"Piss off Rick," he murmured, hands clamped tightly on Rick's strong biceps in restraint, but his breathing was more laboured now, as the anarchist ground closer to him, rocking slightly on his lap. He avoided Rick's watery, intense gaze, but that meant he couldn't help but focus on Rick's slowly grinding hips in those godforsaken yellow dungarees.

"I know you just want to get your rocks off," Vyvyan continued quietly, feeling blushes burning under his skin.

"Don't _you _as well, Vyvyan?" Rick replied.

The punk said nothing, breathing hard and feeling himself stiffen. Rick took one of his hands and once again encouraged it to his crotch.

Quick as lightning, Vyvyan seized Rick by the waist, hauled his weight into his arms and slammed him onto the sofa, pinning him down with his own body. Breathing heavily, barely aware of the light, chilled rain that had begun to patter down on the bright window, he lowered his face to Rick's. The anarchist quickly lifted his head to catch the punk's lips, but Vyvyan avoided it, his lips going to the Rick's ear.

"Is this what you want, virgin?" He whispered, and groped Rick roughly through his dungarees, suddenly squeezing tight, and heard the anarchist make faint, gasping sounds of pain.

"Vyv…?" Rick asked breathlessly, as the punk pulled back and looked at his aqua blue eyes, even more watery than usual.

"I've already fucked this up," Vyvyan murmured to him, expression deadpan, and tone enigmatic.

The sociology student stared up at him, baffled, before Vyvyan lowered his smoky-tasting lips to his own and kissed him very gently.

Frowning, suddenly tentative of the medical students' strange behaviour, Rick hesitated to reply to the kiss. The punk, however, continued to peck him lightly, repeatedly, moving to his cheeks, his jawline, his neck.

"…Vyv?" Rick asked again, his voice tight.

Pulling back and heaving a huge, weary sigh, the flame-haired student stroked the anarchist's face briefly with cool fingers, before tugging softly at the greasy pigtails.

"Sorry Rick…I'm feeling…a bit messed up." He sat back upright on the sofa, gently shifting Rick's legs to make room.

"Is it because…of your boyfriend?" Rick asked propping himself up to sit (somewhat nervously) beside Vyvyan. The punk leant his elbows on his thighs, hunching forward.

"…Him, me, you, Bloodbath," Vyvyan sighed. "And no offence Rick, but you're not exactly agony aunt material. Problem is, I don't know anyone who is."

He laughed mirthlessly, having no idea why he was opening up like this. He wasn't even drunk.

Rick had to agree with the punk. Even he was aware of his own self-centredness, brazen confidence and general disdain for soul-searching. In fact, the punk's evident introspective nature, bizarre brand of sensitivity and obvious issues were alien to him.

He watched Vyvyan get up and go to the fridge. It was only about ten o' clock in the morning, but the punk pulled out one of his trusty bottles of vodka (this one was shoplifted), and take a long swig, before settling back down on the sofa, reeking of alcohol and bitter smoke.

"You don't like me at all, do you?" the punk asked bluntly. Before Rick could answer, he continued. "It's okay. I don't blame you."

The anarchist was beginning to feel quite unnerved and irritated by Vyvyan's melancholy mood. Feeling his old, hot temper welling and his loud-mouthed indignance returning, he slapped the punk viciously hard across the face.

"VYVYAN! WILL YOU GET A GRIP!"

The punk raised a hand to his reddening cheek, looking shell-shocked.

"WILL YOU JUST STOP MOPING VYVYAN!" Rick yelled, standing now, hands on hips in his 'I'm superior to you' pose.

Vyvyan had time to suck in a shocked breath as the anarchist leaned down and grabbed his face in both hands, kissing him as passionately as he could, listening to the punk's tiny, laboured breaths and hitched noises of pleasure. Shakily, Vyvyan's hands went to Rick's neck, fingers raking desperately through his greasy hair, and he stood on unsteady legs as Rick pulled him up, still kissing him ferociously, tongue raping his own with wet, forceful heat.

Vyvyan's high-pitched groans were smothered by Rick, and he staggered backwards as Rick bulled forward into him, banging the punk's shoulder blade painfully on the doorframe, before shoving him back against the far wall into a pool of bright light from the front door.

Eyes closed, chest heaving against Rick's, Vyvyan clawed his hands needily down the anarchist's waist, groaning vaguely as Rick thudded his hips against him sharply, biting his neck viciously hard.

Choking back a cry of exquisite pleasure, Vyvyan scrabbled at Rick's body, trying to get him to head upstairs.

Finally utilising his superior strength, he found the will to shove Rick away from him and start stomping upstairs, boots thudding each step as he panted his way to his own room, hearing Rick immediately behind him. He was barely through the door when Rick dashed in behind him, slamming the door shut and seizing Vyvyan's jacket, ripping it from his shoulders, and ineffectually tugging at the black T-shirt.

Vyvyan started fighting back, throwing his weight against the anarchist so that Rick stumbled back against the door, barely staying upright. The punk grabbed his wrists and slammed them above his head, watching Rick struggle, then he leant in swiftly for another violent, graceless kiss. Their lips smacked noisily, faces pink and damp, breaths coming in shuddery gusts against each other's mouths.

Rick struggled harder and managed to disengage his wrists from the punk's hot hands, yanking his dungaree braces down and pulling the shirt roughly over his head, watching Vyvyan's body with hazy eyes as the flame-haired student tore off his T-shirt and fumbled at his waistband.

The anarchist's fingers went like magnets to Vyvyan's belt, pulling it open and unzipping his flies in seconds. In his haste to get Rick's dungarees off, the punk ripped a nail, drawing blood, shoving him onto his bed and yanking at the yellow material, growling in frustration until he had ripped them off, pulled off the red suede boots, and stripped his underwear.

On all fours above Rick, one hand pushed down at his own tight denim waistband, the other rubbing Rick energetically, whilst they kissed roughly, lips swollen and breaths inconsistent, hot and harsh.

An hour and a half later, Vyv was struggling to reach his fifth orgasm. Rick had just come with a vast, shuddering sigh, a numb and flooding climax that was almost unbearable.

The anarchist's hair was dark and soaked, plastered to his forehead, and his eyes were dazed and sleepy.

Vyvyan's fingers and palms were wrinkled and wet as if he had been sitting in a hot bath for hours, and he had difficulty holding onto Rick's slippery, heavy hips.

They had been in the same position the whole time, Rick on the bottom, and the punk swore that next time he would let Rick do all the work.

Muscles protesting painfully, he managed a few more thrusts before he gave up, pulling out and slumping beside the anarchist, aching, dehydrated and exhausted. The bedsheets underneath him were warm and damp.

His eyes half-open, he gazed at Rick, who was glowing. Nuzzling his own head into the warm, wet pillow, he raised a hand, which shook visibly as if in withdrawal from some hard drug, and slicked the hair from Rick's hot forehead. The anarchist turned onto his side to face Vyvyan, groaning in pain at the change in position. He flashed his square white teeth in a quick grin, and the punk matched it.

The flame-haired student looked at the anarchist's muscled upper arms, his stomach and thighs, watching the exhausted muscles twitch.

Licking his lips, his mouth tasting dry and vile, Vyvyan spoke quietly. He realised for the first time that a heavy rain was battering the window, and the air was noticeably cool as they began to lose heat. His voice was even more cracked than usual.

"I'll give you a lift to college if you can't walk," he smirked.

Rick let out a sweet, breathy laugh, running the back of one hand across his face in an attempt to dry it.

"I think that throwing a sickie would be prudent, Vyvyan," he replied, grinning, stretching painfully and hearing about five joints crack loudly, causing him to sigh in a muted, tired distress.

Vyvyan toyed with his soaked pigtail for a few minutes while Rick, looking half-asleep, rubbed one thumb continuously over the punk's white, damp chest.

It wasn't long before both fell in a light snooze, lightly entwined.


End file.
